It was a simple meal, soon finished; the monks made a point of rising as soon as they had completed their meal, so that they would not be thought gluttonous, or given to the pleasures of table. Frere Gautier, eating with a soldier’s speed, was always one of the first to finish.
“I have to see to the cows in the dairy,” he said to Nino as he came across the room. “Will you lend me a hand?”
“Certainly,” said Nino. Frere Gautier, far more than the other monks, was friendly to Nino, and did not criticize him the way many of the others did. He wiped his bowl and spoon with a rag, then went to put them in their place on the shelf. “Is there something the matter?”
“Not really,” said Frere Aubri. “But at this time of year, you know how it is; the ground is damp and you know how that is—some of them have troubles with their hooves. I have to wash their feet in turpentine. Bovine Apostles, I suppose,” he added, grinning at the impertinence of his joke.
There were few things that Nino liked less than caring for cattle—great, smelly beasts with wet noses and enormous tongues—but he said at once, “You have only to ask and I will assist you.”
“That’s good,” said Frere Gautier, already halfway to the side door. “A few of them get fretful when they have their feet touched.” Just as he was about to close the door behind him, he hesitated, realizing that someone was gesturing to him. His greeting faded as he recognized the monk. “Frere Crepet,” he said, his attitude guarded.
Nino stayed back—he disliked Frere Crepet more than any of the others—hoping he would not be noticed.
“I … I thought there were two of you,” said Frere Crepet in his vague way, his head to the side as he spoke to Frere Gautier.
“My assistant and I have to tend to the cows,” said Frere Gautier in his most patient manner. “If you will let us be about our tasks?” He started to pull the door closed, but once again was stopped by Frere Crepet.
“I saw where our tertiary Brother went today,” he said, this time making a point of speaking directly to Frere Gautier.
Listening, Nino froze, his eyes suddenly expressionless as painted wood. No matter what Frere Crepet said now, he knew he would have to offer some explanation to Frere Gautier if he did not want to be regarded with suspicion.
“He brought cheeses,” said Frere Gautier, dismissing the other monk. “Two bags of them.”
“He crossed a bridge,” declared Frere Crepet.
“He probably crossed several of them,” corrected Frere Gautier, treating the comment as a reasonable one. “There are seven of them on Bondame Clemens’ estate alone. More than ten on the des Achates estate. Four each on Etangrise and Raidebas. Everyone crossing those lands must cross bridges also, except in high summer.”
“This was a different bridge; a special bridge,” said Frere Crepet, then turned away, but not before he had looked Nino full in the face and nodded once.
As he pulled the door between them and the refectory closed, Frere Gautier said, “God has laid a burden on Frere Crepet, and it grows heavier with each passing season.”
Nino decided to take a chance. “What do you think he meant about the bridges?” The answer he was given would determine what he would or would not do to the monk. “Why would he mention bridges that way?”
“Not bridges,” Frere Gautier corrected. “A bridge.” He stepped into the creamery joining the dairy. “Well, who can say?” he asked as he opened a tall, plank-fronted cupboard. “He may have a certain bridge he believes to be special and he thinks you may have crossed it today. That’s one possibility. Do you see the turpentine anywhere?”
“No,” said Nino, who had not been looking for it.
“It has to be in here somewhere.” He moved a few stoneware jars aside. “I wish the others would be more careful about how they store supplies,” he said over his shoulder.
“You miss the army,” suggested Nino, half in jest.
“At times like these I do,” Frere Gautier said seriously. “Most of the time I thank God for letting me find my salvation in His service, but every now and again, I would like to have a sergeant to keep order.” He tried the next shelf down. “Ah. There it is. Find me a good-sized bucket and several rags. We’ll need a lamp as well.” As he straightened up, he put a hand to his back. “I am getting old, Nino.”
“As is everyone,” he said, thinking that he had seen but one person in all his life who seemed impervious to age, and that was Atta Olivia Clemens. He cursed her for that as well as for her role as the author of all his misfortunes. While he tossed half a dozen rags into a bucket, he said to Frere Gautier, “Do you think it would be useful for me to speak with Frere Crepet, in case he has something he—”
Frere Gautier shook his head. “It is useless, I fear,” he told Nino. “We know that something addled his wits and that he continues to suffer. Why make his suffering worse, by reminding him of it?”
“But if there is something about one of the bridges, perhaps I had better find out what it is.” He brought the bucket to Frere Gautier.
The sharp, oily scent of turpentine bit the air. As he poured generously, Frere Gautier shrugged. “If he mentions it again—which I doubt he will—you may want to talk with him, but not until then.” He peered into the bucket, watching the level of turpentine rise. When he stopped pouring, he gave Nino a worried look. “Is there something you think we should know about those bridges?”
Nino was suddenly and unpleasantly on the alert. “What would I know?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.
Frere Gautier paused in the act of putting the jar of turpentine back in the cupboard. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice growing testy. “You seemed so … caught up.”
“Caught up,” Nino repeated. “No.” His laughter sounded unconvincing to him, but he went on in any case. “I cannot help but wonder if there is something…” He suddenly had a notion, and seized it. “When I was a child, there was a man in the village, one who was afflicted in his wits, not quite as Frere Crepet is, but similarly. He sometimes saw the future, or had visions—it was a little difficult to tell which—and I thought perhaps Frere Crepet might be like him. There may be something about one of the bridges he has seen in a vision.” And, he added to himself, when Bondama Clemens is injured, Frere Crepet will have the attention. He could not resist adding, “I thought that someone like Frere Crepet must have gifts from God, as well as curses and burdens. If he knew—”
“He’s never had visions that I heard of,” said Frere Gautier as he opened the door into the dairy, motioning to Nino to follow him. The night was cool, with a low-lying mist forming over the fields; the cows had already been milked and were no longer restless.
Nino looked into the darkness of the barn, knowing that a lanthorn hung by the door on a bracket. “I’ll see to the light,” he offered, glad to have the chance to change the subject.
Over the next several weeks, Nino made several crossings of Olivia’s estate, and each time he used part of his time to do more mischief while he was there. He cut the supports of two other bridges, hollowed out the slope under the farriers shed, then later left materials to make a bomb. He built a tripwire that could be raised and lowered quickly, without leaving cover. And while he did this, he waited for Olivia’s return to her stud farm, knowing that once she arrived, he could adapt his plans to hers. By spring, he promised himself, he would be revenged on this Roman widow.
It was three days before Christmas when Olivia came, her coach the lead of three, all of them under armed escort loaned to her by Mazarin from his Guard. The party arrived toward dusk on a dank, cold afternoon, causing alarm to the household staff, who had not expected the group for two more days.
“Perceval,” Olivia said as she entered the house and peeled off her gloves, “why this continued disarray?”
“It is…” Perceval said, dithering at once, “simply your arrival. At this time of year no one arrives early, Madame, only late. We assumed—”
“Assume nothing,” said Oliv
ia sweetly, putting her hat beside the gloves. “I will require warm spiced wine for my guests and a meal to be served within—shall we say?—two hours.” She nodded her approval to the fresh paint in the large salon. “Very nice. And beeswax on the furniture. A great improvement, Perceval.”
“It would have been greater still had you arrived two days later,” said Perceval, not quite pouting.
“Well, take consolation in approval, Perceval,” said Olivia, gesturing to the first of her guests. “Come, Marquis, let my staff take your cases to the … the blue suite, I think, Perceval. The Marquis and Marquise are continuing from here to Poitiers after the Nativity, and their horses will need to be completely rested and well-fed when they depart. Tell Evraud to attend to that.” She hoped she would not have to spend much time with the young nobleman and his newly pregnant wife. It was one thing to support Mazarin’s work, but something else again to put up with bores. “Also,” she added as if it were nothing more than an afterthought, “the Marquis’ cousin will be joining us here tomorrow, God willing.”
“A cousin?” said Perceval, keeping his voice even.
“So I believe. His duties demanded he spend tonight in Orleans. But tomorrow he will be permitted to enjoy the Christmas festivities with his relations.” She could not entirely stop her own smile.
“How fortunate for the Marquis,” said Perceval with no expression whatsoever.
“You are doing very well,” Olivia approved, and left her guests alone with her staff.
It was icy the next morning; the ground glittered and the horses’ breath was white smoke on the air as Olivia reluctantly agreed to take her guests on an inspection of her estate. “I do not wish to hunt at this time of year,” she had said when they left Eblouir, and she reiterated now. “There is game to be had, but I am not of a temperament to enjoy stalking boar, which is the best sport we can offer.”
The Marquis, who truly loved such hunting, had accepted the decision of his hostess. “An inspection is very generous,” he said, trying not to be rude.
“Had there been more time to prepare,” Olivia said as she mounted her favorite light-dun gelding, “my staff would certainly have been able to do more, but as this is a stud farm and not a hunting ground, we have not the facilities here—”
The Marquise, ungainly enough now to have difficulty getting into the saddle, added her own comment. “Surely you understand, dear husband, that it is not fitting for women to maintain a hunting lodge.” She secured her left leg around the saddlehorn and gathered up the reins. “There. I am grateful for so tractable a mount.”
In Olivia’s opinion, the mare the Marquise rode was little better than a plug, but she said only, “I am pleased she suits you so well,” and turned her dun toward the wide track leading away from the stables and arenas. Thank goodness Niklos would be arriving that evening, she thought, wondering what she was going to do to amuse her guests until her major domo got there.
Recent rains had swollen the streams crossing Olivia’s estate; the sound of rushing water announced each bridge well before they reached it. Olivia made a point of leading the way, taking the duties of a host upon herself.
They were just passing over the widest bridge on the estate when Olivia’s horse balked, throwing up his head and whinnying, big eyes rolling.
Olivia wished she were riding straddle, and did her best to hold him with her hands without the help of her legs. “Quiet, Sabbioso; quiet,” she said as she tried to hold her mount steady.
The dun was not having any; he half-reared and started to spin just as the far side supports of the bridge gave an ominous crack, and then the bridge itself slid, canting to one side as Sabbioso scrabbled for traction on the planks.
“Madame!” cried the Marquis, starting to rush forward, reaching out to pull Olivia from the saddle.
With a vitrolic oath, Olivia set her spur to the dun’s side and sent him into a disorganized bound at the far bank of the stream, protesting his ill-use in a loud squeal. As the horse clawed his way up the far bank, Olivia clinging to his mane to stay in the saddle, the bridge at last broke and part of it dropped into the muddy waters.
“Madame!” shouted the Marquis, staring across the stream at Olivia. “Are you well?”
“A little out of breath,” Olivia called back, annoyed at herself for the fear she had felt. She brought Sabbioso to a halt, and when she was certain his attention was no longer scattered, she got out of the saddle and went to his head. “You did well, boy,” she said quietly to him.
“By Saint Denis, that was as fine a display of riding as I have ever seen a woman show,” the Marquis called to Olivia, grinning as he did. “You’re good enough for the cavalry, Madame, if you will not be offended to hear it.”
Olivia did not answer at once. “I was fortunate in my horse,” she said candidly, not wanting to imagine what might have happened had she been on a less sensible animal.
“Horses are brutes,” the Marquis said, dismissing the part Sabbioso had played. “It was your will that saved you both.”
It would have been pleasant to give the man a sharp retort, but Olivia knew that it would be a foolish indulgence. She patted the flower mark between the gelding’s eyes. “Don’t pay him any mind, Sabbioso; we both know you saved the day.” Then she waved to the Marquis. “Your Marquise is looking very pale, Monsieur. At such a time, you must look after her.”
At once the Marquis turned to his wife, his large eyes filled with alarm. “Are you ill, Madame?”
The Marquise did not answer at once. “I am … a trifle faint, husband,” she said. “The sight of that dreadful accident, so nearly a tragedy—” She broke off, one gloved hand held against her mouth.
“Get her back to the chateau,” Olivia recommended, going on, “I will return shortly. I’ll have to take another bridge, I’m afraid, and after what happened here, who knows if Sabbioso will be persuaded to cross it.” She saw the indecision in the Marquis’ face and added, “Send Thumaz and Evraud after me, with a remount, if you would be so kind.”
It was enough; the Marquis saluted and wheeled his horse away from where the bridge had been toward his Marquise and the protection of Olivia’s house.
As she watched her guests go, Olivia said to the dun, “Did you notice that support pillar, Sabbioso? I’ll wager it’s been cut.” She flipped the ends of her reins against her hand. “Why would anyone want to do that? What’s the point?” She cocked her head as if waiting for the dun to answer; when he did not, she asked the more difficult question. “Who do you think sabotaged the bridge, boy?”
Text of a letter from Gaetano Fosso to Niklos Aulirios at Eblouir.
To that most excellent and respected major domo who has it as his privilege to serve Bondama Clemens, a woman of enviable repute, my greetings to you, with my hope that you will be good enough to review the reports I am sending to you.
First, it is my unhappy duty to inform you that Susanna, the wife of the blacksmith, has died in childbed, and her twins with her. This was the third time she had tried to deliver without being able to bring living babies into the world. She has been buried, and they with her, at Santissimo Redentore. I have given Gabrielle five golden angels in her name, as Bondama Clemens has requested of me in the past at such times. I have also tried to find someone to care for Gabrielle’s house, but so far I have not been able to discover someone willing to tend to the place for him. I have asked various of the tenants on the estate if they can recommend anyone for the work, but no name has yet been forthcoming. Gabrielle is in need of help, and he is not so ancient that it would not be wise for him to find another wife; many men are grandfathers at thirty-six, but it does not mean that life is over.
We have sold over forty lambs this autumn and the prices they have fetched are excellent. I have two pages to complete the accounting to you. It would please me to have you take time at once to read through these figures, so that we may better plan what is to be done in the spring. We have gained something of a reputation
for the quality of the sheep we raise, and it would be best to make the most we can of such good odor.
The request you sent that the west side of the estate be given new and sturdier fencing has been carried out, and the price for this is part of the figures I have sent. I believe that you would do well to extend the fencing now, if it is your intention to continue to improve the fencing, for not only have we needed supplies, we have workers who are not occupied for the winter and who would be glad of a few more coins to put by for this year. Also, since the fencing has begun, there are those who expect the task to be completed.
Guido has recovered from the fever, but is not yet strong enough to return to his duties. I have continued his pay at the same rate as before, though it distresses me to do it. Bondama Clemens is much too lax in these matters, and her insistence that those who are suffering adversity not be turned off, while it is admirable in many ways, is also foolish because it encourages malingering and other discreditable behavior.
The family of Antonio Nuccio have asked to enlarge their market fields. I have refused, but I will grant permission if Bondama Clemens insists that I allow it, though it makes me quite troubled in my mind; I warn you that it will bring about discontent among the rest, and unless we grant all of them more land for their own market fields, there will be open unrest among those who work the land. I beg you will impress upon Bondama Clemens that this is no mere idle fear on my part, but the result of long experience and the knowledge of human nature such dealings impart.
We have had very good harvest from our hives this year—far better than in the last four years. I have instructed the staff to prepare more jars for the honey and to make appropriate storage. To attest to the fine quality of the honey, I will send to you a dozen jars so that you may determine for yourself the quality of the honey.
Our vineyards have been a trifle disappointing, for we had cool weather before it was expected and the grapes were not able to come to full ripeness before our harvest was necessary. It will be some time before we can determine how the wine will be. When we know how the vintage will age, I will inform you. Given the generally inferior quality of last year’s vintage, I do not hold out much hope for a remarkable year.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 38
